


The letter

by Mardale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: also english is not my first language bla bla bla, but i've never written anything, i don't have any experience with sherlolly, i mean i read like every existing fic, so any mistakes come from that, this probably is ooc, warnings: mentions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 14:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12961086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mardale/pseuds/Mardale
Summary: Sherlock is bored when he receives a mysterious letter.





	The letter

Sherlock is waiting. 

He would never admit it, but he is waiting for something, anything to occupy his mind. His roommate since college John is away with his girlfriend Mary, and besides them Sherlock doesn’t really have friends. His brother is a pain, and London is annoyingly calm lately. 

He starts to think about shooting more holes in the walls, mrs Hudson’s last rant be damned, when the letter arrives. 

It has to be a case, he thinks and tears the envelope apart. It falls on the floor, as he starts reading, hunger in his eyes. 

***

The petite brunette wipes the tears from under her eyes with a sleeve of an old lavender sweater. 

She hides her head, curled on a hard wooden chair. 

The arrogant lady in a big, blue dress stares at her, the smile on her face almost smug. Mrs Johnson must have hated that painting if she put it in here.

Molly thinks someone must hate her as well, if she was put in this room and this life.

***

Dear Tom,

I know you are surprised by this letter, and I am surprised I am writing it as well. I hope you are doing well with your new job.

I am aware we agreed to not put pressure on each other, and trust me I would very much prefer not to bother you, but there’s nothing else I can do in this situation.

I am pregnant. 

It is the third month now, and soon I won’t be able to hide it anymore. Please, come and meet me by the cliffs on sunday.

If you ignore me, or if you don’t get this letter I will be out of options. 

Please, Tom, at least write back.

Molly

***

If her father was alive he would be glad, she likes to think. Mad at first, scared that his daughter will waste her life, but he would love to have a grandchild.

But mrs Johnson won’t be mad, won’t be worried. She will just say she is not surprised and kick her tenant out.

Molly’s baggy sweaters hide a lot, but they won’t do so forever. 

She fears the day the (already big) bump will be noticed by the world. 

She sits by the cliffs a lot after work, stares at the letter she wrote to Tom, and still hasn’t send. And then she stares down, at the foaming waves.

She can almost imagine falling into them, light and free.

***

Of course Sherlock notices someone else’s name immidiately, but he can’t quite lift his eyes and ignore the rest of the message. He reads the whole thing, then folds it neatly, and then puts it away.

It is not an interesting message. There is nothing to deduce, everything is right there, black on white, with perfectly stamped dots above pretty, only a little messy handwriting. 

A smalltown girl and her ex-boyfriend, or maybe never-a-boyfriend, young, reckless and now expecting a baby. A baby the man knows nothing about yet, and a girl, woman that can’t handle it all by herself.

It is simple and maybe sad, but it is not too complicated. Definitely not complicated enough for the world’s only consulting detective.

Sherlock sits on the sofa, and stares at the wall for a while.

He thinks about the last case, the mysterious code and all of that. It wasn’t his favorite case, but compared to the emptiness of his last days, he quite misses it. 

He is reminded of the letter only a few hours later, as he glances on it, the white piece of paper laying neatly on the table. That’s when he realizes he should probably resend the letter so that it is delivered to Tom, whoever that is.

He picks the letter up, but realizes the envelope is nowhere near it.

Right, it fell on the floor.

He finds it closer to the door, puts the paper inside the envelope, and then he notices the stain on the recipient’s adress.

He must have spilled coffee on it.

For fuck’s sake.

***

She is tired, so tired. 

She still sits by the cliffs, but she doesn’t even bring the books with her anymore. What’s the point, she thinks. She can’t even be a good cashier, how could she ever become a pathologist?

Her boss is nice, but she can still see how uncomfortable he gets when he gives her the paycheck. She is pretty sure the only reason he hasn’t fired her yet is because he can’t even look her in the eye and say the words aloud. 

It is Saturday, she is sitting close to the edge of the cliff when the baby kicks for the first time. 

It feels right somehow. She imagines the tiny foot, the tiny head that is not yet fully shaped.

She laughs, for the first time in months.

The smile only dies when she gets back home, and mrs Johnson shows her the door without a word.

***

He’s been staring at the stain for what feels like an eternity, and he still can’t make what the receiver’s adress is. 

Maybe he should just ignore it, he thinks. Statistically the Tom guy would probably do that. Him not getting the letter doesn’t change much.

Except it does.

Out of options, he thinks, that girl is out of options. 

She is probably being dramatic, doesn’t want to tell the truth to her family. Or maybe she has already found help. Maybe she sent more letters.

But what if she didn’t?

Her writing doesn’t seem comfortable, she probably only wrote this one letter.

He tells himself it is stupid, it is none of his business. 

But what does this girl mean by ‘’out of options”? And why does she want to meet by the cliffs? Why there? 

He almost runs out of his apartment, catching the nearest cab and getting to the station right before the last train leaves.

It is Saturday, not many people in the compartments. He finds and empty one, and sits down, no baggage except for the letter that is safe in his coat’s pocket.

It only seems right that he returns it to the sender.

***

She has her books now with her. Has everything she owns actually, right here in a suitcase, leaning on one of the big rocks.

She stands up, the cold getting to her even through the jacket and the much too big sweater.

She wonders if the baby is cold too, if that is why it doesn’t kick.

The water below probably wouln’t be that cold now, Molly thinks. And it seems closer too, in the dark.

She stands like that the whole night.

***

The sun is slowly rising when he gets out of the train. The station proves him right, it looks exactly like every smalltown station does. 

He asks the cashier where are the cliffs. She politely shows him the way, even draws a little map in case he got lost. 

She is very motherly he thinks. Asks if he came here especially for the cliffs. He just clears his throat and thanks for the instructions. 

***

She is shivering, her cheeks wet and cold (is it from the tears or from the morning dew? She doesn’t know.).

She is being stupid and unreasonable. She should go and beg mrs Johnson to take her back in, or ask anyone else to help her. 

But that would do nothing, she thinks. No one knows me here, no one cares. Only Tom cared, or maybe not even he did.

All she wanted was to get away from here, it was just a temporary stop, something before she can get the money for the university.

But then dad got sick, and then Tom left, and then she was all alone. Or at least she thought she was.

I can’t do anything for us now, she thinks, I am sorry.

She strokes her belly, and gets closer to the edge.

It seems far away, but she doesn’t care anymore.

She takes a deep breath, and then closes her eyes. Wind hits her face.

And then someone shouts at her, and she notices the tall silhouette, sun blinding her.

\- Tom?

She asks weakly.

But as this person gets closer, she notices it is not Tom. This man has darker her, bluer eyes. He breathes heavily and shakes his head.

\- If you jumped you would have regretted it after about two thirds of the way down. Whatever problems you have... And I am guessing lack of friends and job, death of a parent or even both, and obviously the unplanned pregnancy... after twenty metres down you would realise you can solve all of them. That is if you resemble the poeple that survived jumping down the Brooklyn Bridge.

\- H-how do you know that? And who are you?

\- Sherlock Holmes. And you are obviosly Molly.

\- Did Tom send you?

\- You could say so. But I’d say I send myself.

\- I am afraid I don’t understand. But then, I barely understand anything lately. 

She laughs, biterness and tears in her voice. 

\- I just can’t do it. I don’t have money, education, family, not even a house. I am pathetic. 

He clears his throat, and ahnds her the letter awkwardly.

\- I just wanted to give you this back. The post made a mistake, that’s why I am here. You can write to Tom again now.

She nods her head.

\- Thank you. 

He nods as well, staring into her eyes.

\- I-I should go now. The nearest train leaves in an hour.

\- Of course. 

You did what you had to do, he thinks, it is done, it is none of your business. But then he remembers the sight of this strange woman getting closer to the edge of the cliff, and it sends shivers down his spine.

He turns around abruptly.

\- Or you could see Tom in person. It is faster than letters, and there is no chance of you getting delivered to the wrong person. 

Molly’s eyes linger on the sea for a second.

\- I should get away from here I guess.

Sherlock breathes out with what one would call a relief. He lifts her suitcase.

\- Let’s go then.

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by the song "La lettre". Go, listen to it, and appreciate Renan Luce.   
> Then you can come back and comment (it would be very nice, not gonna lie).


End file.
